


5 LONG NIGHTS | fnaf x reader scenarios

by skotchy



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Abusive Siblings, Foul Language, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Multi, Other, Smoking, Swearing, fnaf scenarios, fnaf x reader, foot fetish (weird but i mentioned it once for giggles), he gets nice when he's older don't worry, i'll try my best tho, i'm bad at updating srry, same thing i guess but, sorry guys but teen michael is an asshole, uhhh parents argue, uhhh warnings so far are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skotchy/pseuds/skotchy
Summary: ❝ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғɪᴠᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ɴɪɢʜᴛs, ᴋɪᴄᴋ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴀʙ ᴀ sʟɪᴄᴇ-❞Man, love is 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙯𝙮
Relationships: CC/Reader, Fritz Smith/Reader, Jeremy Fitzgerald/Reader, Michael Afton/Reader, Mike Schmidt (Five Nights at Freddy's)/Reader, Phone Dude/Reader, Phone Guy (Five Nights at Freddy's)/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 55





	5 LONG NIGHTS | fnaf x reader scenarios

designs are personal ones I made up. 

reader's pronouns are neutral! enjoy. 

**warnings: foul language, smoking**

——— 

**MIKE SCHMIDT**

The office is empty once you get there. However, it is only 11:45 and that's a whole 15 minutes before midnight. That's right. Midnight. You were told to be early, so this is just you being professional. All professional up in here, like some sort of fancy businessman.

There's two wheelie chairs, and you take a seat in one, picking up a tablet resting on the desk. You wonder who the other chair is for. It's for your partner, at least- that's what you had been told. You knew that part. Maybe they were late. Or maybe you didn't actually have a partner. Not that you really minded either way. 

At 11:58 your partner arrives. He's frowning, and just from the way he's... vibing (?), you can tell he's an unusually moody person. Okay, vibing is a bad word. More like, you can almost sense him and his grump attitude just by glancing over at him. Minutes later, the phone rings. You ignore it, and by the time he reaches for it, the man on the phone is already speaking. So it's a recording. 

"Hello? Hello?" 

After this simple greeting, you mutter a small greeting of your own in response. Despite the fact it's a recording, you still feel the need to at least acknowledge the existence of the stranger;s voice. However, from then on you tune him out, instead kicking your feet up on the desk. Glancing over at your partner, you grin lazily when you find him glancing over at you. He's scowling, lips pressed tightly together in disapproval. When he realizes you're looking at him, he glances away, pointedly focusing on listening to the phone call. 

"What's your name?" 

_"What?"_

He stares at you, as if you're speaking another language. Maybe you are. You know you're not though. He probably just wasn't paying attention. Or more specifically- actually paying attention to what is probably an important phone call while you scroll through the camera like it's the meme tag on Instagram. 

"What's your name? I'm (Y/n)-" 

"Mike. Mike Schmidt." 

"Hi, Mike! Nice to meet you," you greet, giving a thumbs up. You refrain from asking about whether or not he's gotten jokes about his last name (like, Mike _Shit_ -). It's probably a reality in this poor man's life, and you wouldn't want to come off as an ass by asking. Or even by just popping a joke yourself about it. Plus it's a stupid thought. 

"Can you just please be _quiet_?"

Well you'll be damned. He speaks. 

The phone call is reaching its tail end, and Mike seems intent on finishing it. Although his face seems a little pale, as if he's having a, _'fuck what have I just gotten myself into,'_ kind of moment. The phone call mentions something, something about teeth or eyeballs (maybe a weird reminder to keep your eyes alert and your mouth shut) and then concludes with a reminder to save on power. 

"Gotcha bro," you say, and send an identical set of thumbs up his way, letting him know you heard him. 

_"Stop."_

Finally satisfied with this little first impression of yours, you glance at the tablet resting in your lap. You flick through with an unworried casualty, only raising an eyebrow when you reach to the Show Stage camera. Chica is gone. Not that you're aware that's the chicken's name. Or that she's a chicken in the first place. Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria hadn't even come into existence in your life until you needed a job and found yourself here with a moody partner who seems to want nothing to do with you. 

"Oh _shit_." 

Normally you don't curse (what a lie), but it's probably appropriate for the situation. 

"What?" Mike asks, leaning forward in his chair. He doesn't seem irked by your foul language. 

"The ducky's gone." 

If only you knew how angry that would make nearly every toddler in this small town. Fortunately (or perhaps, _unfortunately_ ), you were only stuck with one toddler, and that was Mike. And Mike didn't seem to care whether you were right or not (even though you were obviously wrong) about a stupid animatronic's name. 

Pushing off the desk, you wheel over to the right door. Flashing the light, you can see said ducky standing near the window. You slam your fist on the door button, sliding back over to Mike. 

He looks terrified (although if you told him such you doubt he would admit it). Staring at the door, his grip on the chair is tight. 

"Check the other door. I don't see the bunny." 

"What?" 

Mike seems to say that a lot. Either he's got some hearing issues, or he's literally Dory from Finding Nemo and can't seem to remember anything that didn't happen in the past five seconds. Or neither. Besides, you haven't watched Finding Nemo in forever, and you're pretty sure the movie's trash anyways. Maybe you should find a better character to compare him to. Or even better- you just stop going on irrational tangents.

"Check the left door. Close it if you see something there. Simple." 

Without another question he obeys, slamming the door down with a strangled screech seconds later. 

" _What. Was._ _That?_ "

"The bunny dude."

Mike doesn't even correct you about your poor name choices. Neither of you care if his name is Bugs Bunny, Bonnie, or even just the freaking Easter Bunny. You're a little more concerned about not dying. Well, at least Mike is. You didn't even hear what the man on the phone said about the animatronics trying to stuff you into a suit. So at the moment, Mike is the only one actually concerned for his life. You're just along for the ride. 

"Is that what the guy on the phone meant?" He asks.

You shrug, telling him, " I dunno. I stopped paying attention after he said, ' _Hello? Hello?_ '" Your voice deepens at the end in an attempt to mimic the man on the phone. It fails. You sound nothing like him. However, you do sound extremely stupid. 

"You mean, you didn't hear about the part about them _stuffing us into suits, where we'll die a slow and miserable death_?!" 

Mike is full on grabbing your shoulders in an uncomfortably tight grip and shaking you. Personal space bubble popped. You're not very pleased about this, despite being a normally chill kind of person. Pressing a hand on each of his shoulders, you gently shove him off. At least as gentle as you can be when getting him to let go. Almost anything is fine with you, except when you're personal space is being invaded. It's pretty much the one thing you can't stand. In joking terms, you might simply say it was your kryptonite. 

After that, Mike doesn't say anything else, and you don't really either. Only the occasional order for him to check the door and either open or shut it. Fortunately for the both of you, whatever lurks behind the starry curtains of Pirate Cove does not make an appearance. 

You're at only 12% battery when the chimes ring out.

6 AM.

There's no actual grandfather clock, just a recording that sings through the speakers placed in the two hallways to you're left and right. The building switches back to it's main source of power or whatever it is. You prefer not to think about it. Your head honestly hurts a little after tonight, well... technically this morning. But like you said, you don't want to think about it. Instead you stretch, Mike doing the same. Afterwards, he leans down to scoop up his jacket. He ditched it when he realized how stuffy the office was and that he was going to be doing plenty of running back and forth. 

"See'ya, Mike." You offer only a lazy wave as a goodbye. 

He just grunts in response, tiredly zipping up his jacket. He's just as exhausted as you are. As you're leaving he calls out, "See you tomorrow (Y/n)." 

———

 **PHONE** **GUY**

The teen girl at the desk smiles cheerfully, and all you can think is that these bands have the plastic texture you absolutely _loathe_. And it's orange, which is alright but not what you're in the mood for right now.

"Birthday groups have different colors so we can tell them apart," she explains. "We have two parties today, and I heard they're both big groups. General admission all wear purple bands."

She picks at a beaded bracelet among the several she has on.

"Have a good time!" The girl waves goodbye as she moves onto the next batch of customers.

You grip your camera bag tightly, a deadpan expression on your face. You hate this place. The air smells of sweaty feet and greasy pizza. Both things you absolutely hate. The walls are painted mismatched colors with patterns and cartoonish figures on them and the floor clashes with it- sporting neon designs and shapes that make your eyes hurt. And among it all is you— a bleak smudge against an otherwise explosive canvas. As always on these jobs you're sporting all black, looking very professional in a turtleneck and pressed jeans. You're also wearing a jacket, although it's hot in here so you're likely going to end up taking it off. You can already feel sweat gathering at the back of your neck.

"You must be (Y/n)!"

A too-cheerful woman places a hand on your shoulder. Her grip is tight and uncomfortable, clamping down. It's obvious she's the one behind this party and your hiring. It's obvious from her try-hard outfit and the high heels she's wearing despite the location she's in. She probably has a flask filled with wine somewhere. You've dealt with her type. Not very happily of course, but you've done it.

"Thank you for coming, I know my little Amelia will be so glad to have these pictures to look back on!"

Ah yes. The reason you're here.

To take pictures for her eight year-old daughter's birthday party. Not normally your thing (you much prefer weddings or even family photos), but money is money. And you also owe Lindsey.

' _Just remember, this lady is struggling. She probably is five feet over the edge. Lindsey said she_ _recently went through a divorce,'_ you remind yourself.

You just nod.

She chatters on, beginning to lead you to a table of children, with an overdressed little girl at the head. She looks depressed.

【✰✰✰】

The ladies name is Heather.

She is all talk, and doesn't know when to shut up. You're too polite to say anything. She knows nothing about photography yet likes to prattle on about some of the shots you should take. They look absolutely horrendous, but she seems happy. Money is money.

Now they're all at the table eating cake.

You're actually pretty much done, as Heather scribbles out a check and chatters on.

"Want a piece?"

Before you is Isaac (you know this from his name tag), waving a plate of cake in your face. He's a worker here wearing the same purple short-sleeved button up all workers here wear. Apparently, he is _also_ friends with this Heather. Avoiding eye contact, you notice his shoes (which are just plain hightops) are covered in children's signatures. It's quite endearing. You ignore his question though. You're not in the mood for cake right now. It's icecream cake and you don't like icecream.

"May I take a picture of your shoes?" you ask politely. 

Isaac seems surprised.

"Sure. I guess?" He sets the cake plate down and pulls up his pant legs a bit do they're not covering his shoes. You notice his socks are two different lengths, which is cute. Normally things like that bother you, but it's fitting.

You crouch down, and hold up your camera take a few shots. They're nice. You're not sure what you'll do with them, but they make you happy.

"Thanks."

Isaac smiles.

"No problem." 

———

**JEREMY FITZGERALD**

The park is nice. You're mostly here to sit on a bench and read for a bit before you have to head off to do boring adult stuff and meet with a friend to help her get ready for a date. Think of it as a charging station, charging you up until you have to deal with your energy sucking friend. She's not a bad friend- just... really... tiring to be around. Macy just has much more energy than you do. And better socializing skills. Much better. You pretend you're not jealous of how she can easily make friends. And just talk to people in general. And how she can even leave her house without feeling like something bad is going to happen and that large crowds are the audience to your slowly ticking down demise. 

Speaking of ticking... What time is it? 

Checking the little clock on your phone, you note you should probably leave. You have to go grocery shopping before heading over to Macy's. Stock up on enough food to last you for a week or two so you don't have to leave the safety of your living room couch. Except for work. Unfortunately you can't escape from the everyday responsibilities of keeping a job. But that's enough of that. You need to focus! Grocery shopping and then help Macy get ready for her date! 

At least any hopes of having a love life will live on in her. Or some inspirational bullshit like that. Another ploy of that stupid little brain of yours to make you feel better about your anxiety and the fact even talking to the cashier at the grocery store can get you nervous. Oh well. In a way your dreams sort of do live on in her. Not that you'd say that to her. She's probably feel bad and tried to set you up on a blind date. She hasn't done it yet, but it was a constant topic and you made a lame excuse every time she brought it up. You'd avoid it until you couldn't. And then you would just... die or something. Okay, not quite that dramatic, but you'd feel the like you were dying on the inside. And of course you would say none of this to her, swallow it all down like you were flushing it down some sort of feelings toilet. And then you would continue to suffer in silence while she set up the date. And then when you when she helped you get ready for the date. And then when you were on the date. And then it would all spiral down into you likely having a panic attack in the shitty bathroom of some hipster restaurant or coffee shop you'd never even heard of. 

You scoop up all your stuff and dump it into your bag. Once you double (then triple) check that you have everything, you straighten up. You're good to go. 

"Watch out dude!" 

What. 

You whip your head towards the little boys voice. 

You don't even get to see him before your on the ground, flat on your back. You blink a few times, sit up. Nose. Your nose. Not even just your nose. Your face. It hurts like hell. Gosh, what even happened. Slowly you bring a hesitant hand to your face, you prodding your nose. Surprisingly, no blood. Well actually- there is blood, but just a small dotting that you can barely even notice on your finger. Your nose is probably fine- not broken or anything like that. You would know if it's broken. Because you've broken it before. And it was not fun. Lot's of tears. Eight year old you was sobbing. 

"Sorry dude, Mr. Lord Coolguy Awesomesauce has a hel- heck of a throwin' arm. Heck. Haha, anyways, you okay dude?"

You grab the strangers hand, unsure if you would be able to convince yourself to get off the ground if he hadn't said anything. Probably not. At least until you started getting weird looks or some person's dog trotted over to you and started licking your face. 

"Yeah... I'm- I'm fine. Thank you," you mumble, looking at the kind stranger who helped you up. You just hoped he didn't notice how cold and sweaty your hands are.

Wow. He's tall. Like, way taller than you. You have to look up to make eye contact with him. Him and his... sunglasses? Wow. This is a change. Now you don't exactly have to make eye contact. Nice. However, you can no longer look at his slick shades because you think you've been staring too long and you'd rather not come off as a creep. Then he might as well just drop you back on the ground. 

"Anyways, I'm Jeremy, and this is my nephew- what's your name again bud?" Jeremy looks down at his nephew, and you're convinced that this guy is crazy if he doesn't know his own nephews name. But that's terrible to assume, so maybe his nephew is like you (asocial and lacking any sort of ability to converse like a normal person) and he's trying to get him to socialize. Yeah. Yeah, yeah. That's probably it. At least it's more effort than Macy makes. She just forces you into a huge situation. Like the time she somehow convinced you to go to a club with her. You ended up having a panic attack and walked home 45 minutes after you got there.

She hasn't asked since. 

You glance down at his nephew. Then you watch as he jumps up and clings onto Jeremy's shoulders, managing to pull himself up so he can wrap his legs around Jeremy's waist and keep himself up comfortably. 

"Mister Lord Coolguy Awesomesauce!" He cries, raising a lone fist to wave around in the air. You lean back a little at his sudden outburst. 

Jeremy seems entirely unfazed by this, saying, "His name is actually Jared but he's a chill dude so I don't mind the fancy names." Jared continues to climb Jeremy, pushing himself up so he can sit on his uncle's shoulders. Jeremy just grabs his ankles to make sure he doesn't fall.

At this point this whole interaction is getting weird. You need to grab grocery's. 

"I should probably go..." You trail off, jabbing a thumb behind you. You're just ready to leave. 

Jeremy nods, Jared mimicking him. 

"Of course dude! Nice meetin' you, maybe we'll run into each other some other time. Hopefully you don't get hit in the face with a Frisbee though." 

Jeremy holds his hand out in a fist. Oh gosh. He wants a fist-bump. 

' _C'mon, be chill!_ ' You yell at yourself (but in your head so only you could hear it). Luckily your hands are already clenched into tight fists. Although more because of anxiety than anything. Hesitantly you raise your hand and gently bump it against his. You even get an extra offer to fist-bump Jared. You accept. Jared seems pleased by this and grins at you. "See'ya dude!" Jeremy and Jared wave goodbye and you wave back before turning the other way and walking towards the grocery store. Only after a few steps do you realize you're going the wrong way. 

———

**FRITZ SMITH**

"Wake up."

You feel a weak kick to the shin, then another. You groggily open your eyes. First one, then the other. Then you blink a few times, trying to get the unending weariness out of your eyes. Of course it doesn't go away, and you feel as tired as always. Ready to just hit the hay wherever. Apparently at a bus stop. You glance up at the stranger. You have no idea who he is. His hands are in his jacket pockets and he has his foot poised back like he's about to come in for another kick. Luckily he lowers it once he realizes you're awake. He has a sort of bored ' _meh_ ' expression.

You look down at yourself. The lit cigarette in your hands was dangerously close to your pants. Any closer and you would've been burning like a human marshmallow over the fire. Despite the funny description, the idea of being set on fire is _very_ unappealing. 

Looks like you've dozed off again. This is normal.

Any dull moment or lull in the action and you feel it get harder and harder to focus and stay awake. You like to think you were only dozing off for a few short moments, but the ugly truth is that you could've snoozing much, much longer. Of course at places like these you sleep lightly, so if any dude tried to mug you, you would've been up in a few seconds and ready to fight him off. Of course you'd be a bit sluggish at first but after a punch or two you were sure to wake up all the way. 

"You gotta be careful y'know? Don't wanna light yourself on fire. Unless you're into weird shit like that."

You snort. Why would any body be into lighting them-self on fire? Only an idiot would do that. Apparently you're one of these idiots you think, snubbing out the cigarette on the damp pavement. That way it couldn't possibly do anymore damage if you were to somehow take another nap. He sits down next to you. You notice the jacket he's wearing. Security is printed on the side of the sleeve in bold white and all caps. Makes sense. It's almost dark out, so he's probably getting ready to head off to some security night job. 

"So what makes you so tired that you're dozin' off at any ol' a bus stop?" 

You shrug, glancing out at the rain. It's quiet pattering is just the thing that would make you sleepy. It sounds just like those old tapes your mother would play for background noise when you had your nightmares. It always seemed to help, even with the real ones that seemed to happen constantly and terrified you to high hell. 

"Dunno. I'm tired a lot. Just dozed off for a moment I guess." He nods. 

You think that's the end of the conversation until he says, 

"I'm Fritz. Fritz Smith. What's your name? So I can tell all my buddies about the dozin' dummy that almost lit them-self on fire." 

What a nickname. _The Dozin' Dummy_. Quite fitting, after all, that really is all you are. An idiot who has the misfortune of a fucked up brain that lakes to conk out whenever and take a nice nap at the most inopportune times. It's better than the ones the bullies in highschool called you. At least he has the decency to leave out any curse words he thinks would sound good smashed together. 

"Nice to meet you Smith. I'm (Y/n). (Y/n) (L/n)." 

———

**MICHAEL AFTON**

Cat! Where is your _cat_!? The fluffy little devil keeps running off whenever she gets the chance. Now it's a race against the clock to get out the door before your cat darts out. Fortunately, your devil cat is also a smart devil cat and always returns within a few hours or running off, albeit more smug than when she ran off. But you still love Myrtle anyways. The smug bastard she is. Today is another day, you're not doing much. Mostly just doing boring adult stuff like folding laundry and eating an entire tub of icecream while watching movies and cuddling with your friendly cat. You hear a crash outside, then a knock at your door. You open it to reveal a out of breath man and the bastard baby you call Myrtle. 

" _I believe this is your cat?_ " he wheezes. He's bent over and you're pretty sure he would have his hands on his knees if not for holding your cat. 

"They like to join me at my place... Hhh... Usually they scratch at the door and run in when I... when I answer. This happens all the time. I usually just let them out.. and they're good. Today they were... particularly stubborn." 

So that's where the little fucker's been going. Bothering somebody, _scratching up their door-_

"I'm so sorry!" You exclaim suddenly, and he seems caught off-guard, nearly dropping Myrtle. "I can pay for any damage to your door!" 

He laughs. 

"It's fine. I really don't care. It adds... character." 

He shrugged. "Ummm... Well I still owe you something! Okay?" 

"Sure... I'm uh Michael... You could get me coffee or something? I don't really know how this works." 

Michael winces. 

"No! I know something better! Want to join me for icecream. It's just plain vanilla, but I've got sprinkles and chocolate sauce 'n shit." 

You carefully grab Myrtle from Michael, sending her off to roam your apartment where she will probably spitefully scratch up all your furniture. You pick at a bandaid on your finger, a nervous habit of yours. Was your offer dumb? Mayhaps too silly? It's quite the possibility. "Sure." He follows you to your kitchen, the only part of your apartment that's clean. 

"Sorry for the mess, I wasn't expect any, uh, cat rescuers to come by. Wait- _shit_ \- I never introduced myself. I'm (Y/n). And that little shit you returned is called Myrtle. She's an asshole but I love her." 

Michael laughs. You do too, trying not to though. You'd hate to drop the icecream. 

"Okay. Here's the icecream, uhh- here's some bowls, and spoons, and here's some stuff to put on it. Go wild." 

You glance at the bowls, cringing when you realized you used some old ones you had decorated in highschool. Oh well. You scoop some icecream into yours, and grab the whipcream. After no hesitation to spray some in your mouth, you do a nice little swirl on your icecream. Then you drown it in chocolate sauce and sprinkles. If you're eating icecream, you have to go all the way. 

Meanwhile, Michael just adds a little chocolate sauce, and mixes it up until it has the consistency of a milkshake. A chocolate milkshake. Once it is nice soupy, then he starts to eat it. 

Clearly the two of you are two very different people. Also quite weird people, at that. 

"Nice icecream," you tell him. 

"Uh yeah. You too. I like the bowls too. What did you have in mind when these were created?" You snorted. 

"I uh, decided to go for clown meets lawn-mower. It's a really unique aesthetic. Thought of it myself." 

"Nice." 

The two of you sit in silence for a while until Michael clears his throat. 

"I should be going." 

You nod. 

"Bye!" He calls. 

You stand at the counter until you hear the door click shut behind him.


End file.
